


Thanks for Calling

by troubleseason (cats_cradle6766)



Category: GOT7, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mental Abuse, Panic Attacks, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt, Telemarketing, University AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cats_cradle6766/pseuds/troubleseason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Telemarketing is a little like a box of chocolates, you never know who the person is on the other end of the line until they answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks for Calling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [newlyentwined (bluedreaming)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming/gifts).



> I know Teen Wolf wasn’t in the listed fandoms or side characters, but I hope you don’t mind. I was reading through your prompts and this one (#10) just jumped out at me. I hope you enjoy it! This technically takes place almost immediately after the end of Season 3b of Teen Wolf. 
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta, A, who always has my back. Thank you!

. . . 

The average an undergraduate college student pays for one year of schooling is roughly $32,405 at private colleges. For students at public colleges in state, the tuition rates are $9,410 for a year of enrollment, $23,893 for out of state. Usually, that doesn't include the separate expenses of textbooks, housing, meals, or medical insurance. In general, the vast majority of students manage to make things work through financial aid, student loans, scholarships, or grants. Some students are extremely lucky and have inheritance, a college fund set up by their parents, or have a financial benefactor and can travel through undergrad without feeling the horrific weight of monetary burden on them.

Some students will take work study, completing a portion of their tuition fees while working at the college or university to help pay off their massive student debt. Others will take side jobs, part time occupations, to try to get them through the costs of textbooks, supplies, and semester tuition bills.

As classes usually take up the majority of time, most students work in the evenings to try to cover for their lack of finances. They take many jobs: some bartending, some working in retail, some doing research positions, and a few getting creative and making their own personal business ventures. Jackson knew two seniors in his sophomore year who had managed to pay their entire year's tuition by operating a wine business. How they did it exactly, Jackson isn't sure, but it sure as shit sounds a lot better than sitting inside a cubicle with a headset on calling people who don't want to be called to offer them stuff he doesn't care about and being met with either politeness or outright anger at his call.

That's kind of the short end of the stick though, being a telemarketer who is just here for the paycheck and calling people who think his primary purpose in life is to annoy them and present himself as an outlet for their anger at the world. But that's the general attitude of most people towards telemarketers, and while Jackson needs the money, likes the job for that, he _hates_ almost everything else about it.

Yes, sometimes there are good things about it, where he'll get some obscure people on the phone and gets into conversations that are actually really memorable and fun, but they're far and few between. Technically, the job is good for him, tying into his major in Communications. Granted, the focus on Speech Therapy doesn't _really_ tie into calling people at home and trying to sell them shit they don't need, but it looks good on a resume and the money looks good in his bank account before he has to use it to pay off his tuition fees.

Most nights, Jackson makes endless calls, starting from four in the afternoon (after his last lecture) and calling until close to ten in the evening (when calling hours end). Most people don't want to be bothered, a few of them ripping into him about how terrible he is to be doing this, bothering people _right at dinner time_ , how he should be ashamed of himself for doing this job. It's frustrating, but the rare stories of Mrs. Brennan and her seventeen cats, Mr. Wu who just got a job promotion and Jackson is the first person he tells this great news, those stories make it worth it.

It's those stories Jackson hopes he'll get when he comes into the office today. He had to leave Mark and Jaebum's fascinating discussion of parasomnia in their shared apartment as he headed to the office for his dreaded shift.

Not for the first time, Namjoon had gotten home just as Jackson was leaving. "Why do you keep doing this job if you hate it so much?" he'd asked, just as usual. Namjoon seems to have this glorious pipe dream that if he works hard enough, he can be successful in that endeavor and support himself. Namjoon also has been able to do that though, working through the radio stations as part of his major and counting it as work experience _and_ college credit.

"It's an income," Jackson had shrugged. "And I like the cat stories."

"Just don't let the haters get you down, yeah?" Namjoon had said, a sympathetic smile on as he had patted Jackson's shoulder. 

So far, it's been hours of work with a brief break for Jackson to get dinner between seven thirty and eight, a break from people getting annoyed he was calling at dinner time. There were some good stories, a few people who weren't caustic assholes, and one three year old who answered and melted Jackson's heart. They'd talked for a little while, and Jackson learned that she loved to paint with her hands and caramel was apparently the _only_ appropriate topping for vanilla ice cream.

Now, it's close to closing, and Jackson just has a few more names on his list, a few more numbers to call. His eyes itch, his throat hurts from talking so much, and he still has homework to do for classes tomorrow. Closing his eyes, he recites off the standard introduction as soon as the phone picks up after three rings. It's automatic at this point, and Jackson doesn't even register speaking anymore, just wanting to get this over with so he can go home.

"Hello, I'm calling for Mr. Sti-" Jackson begins, but it cut off by a sudden sound on the other end of the line. "Hello?"

"He's not here," comes a voice, a little too thin, on the other end. Then a gasped breath. "Sorry, who is this?"

Jackson blinks, but slips back into his training voice and dialogue. "My name is Jackson," he begins. "And I'm calling about an off-"

Then another sound, almost like a hollow gasped laugh that cuts Jackson off, streams through the phone. "Jackson?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"I had a friend named Jackson," the other guy says. His voice shakes a little, cracking on the name. "I mean, we weren't entirely friends, he kind of hated me, us, but he hated everyone. Except himself, though I think he kind of hated himself too. It was never really all that clear, but he wasn't so bad." This is all said very fast, with a fast breath indrawn at the end and then held. "I had a friend named Jackson. That was real. That happened."

"Okay," says Jackson, confused and not sure what's going on, but he gets the impression whoever is on the other line doesn't know either. "What's your name?"

"Stiles," the other man says, followed by another breath. It shakes. "My name is Stiles. Not- I'm Stiles. Everyone calls me Stiles."

"Are you okay?"

It's probably not appropriate, and definitely not in the dialogue packets Jackson and the rest all got when they were given the job as telemarketer. There is a silence where Jackson can just hear breathing, and he's not really sure what to do, before Stiles speaks again. "Yeah," he says, though his voice sounds weak. "I mean, I guess, I'm _supposed_ to be okay, you know?" A hollow, too fast, too shaking laugh, and then a soft crack. "You're not supposed to tell people 'I'm totally fucked, I'm so fucked' right? People don't want to hear that, _no one_ fucking wants to know that, it's not- I'm fine, I'm just- Why are you calling me?"

"I'm a telemarketer," Jackson answers. He's not exactly sure what's going on with Stiles, but nothing Stiles has said makes him sound ‘fine’. It's not uncommon for telemarketers to get involved in dangerous calls, to get the dark answers of someone who has just lost a loved one or, in extreme cases, committed murder. This sounds... "I was going to try to sell you insurance, but I don't think you're all that interested."

"What kind of insurance?" Stiles asks. "I mean, if it can cover all my freakin’ health bills, I might actually be interested, considering they just keep coming in. You want some advice? Don't get cerebral CAT scans by bribed doctors who work in corrupt mental institutions. Those assholes never stop billing you. Medicine should never have gone for profit. Real, right?"

"Real," Jackson answers. "You needed a CAT scan? For what?"

"They thought I was sick," Stiles explains, and he clears his throat. "They thought I had the same thing my mom had. She died."

"I'm sorry," Jackson says, feeling genuinely apologetic.

"No, I mean-" Stiles coughs. "It was a long time ago. She - she wasn't okay. My dad still misses her. I do too, but it's not like that'll bring her back. But they thought I had the same thing, that I was going to die. I wasn't. Just possessed."

"You-" Jackson falters. "What?"

"It happens," Stiles says, and then lets out a forced laugh. "You know, you open your brain through some ritualistic shit and then forget who you are and can't sleep and can't fucking function and I don't even know if this is real or if I ever woke up and the whole thing is just gonna start again and I still _think_ about this fucking stuff all the time, like, how I did all this stuff, how I killed so many people, how I- I didn't mean to but I _did_ and that shit just screws you up, you know?" Stiles takes in a very fast breath, and then another, and another. "I'm so fucking scared, you know?"

There are emergency numbers Jackson can use, and he feels his heart beating faster as Stiles keeps talking. There are numbers they can use for stuff like this, if they hear about a murder, a medical emergency, or something similar. Jackson thinks of them right now, right before Stiles says, "I don't even feel real, like- this isn't even my body, and no matter how many times I try to wash off the blood on my hands, _it won't fucking come off_."

"Not your body?" Jackson's hands still, trying to keep his breathing even, calm.

"Sorry," Stiles says. "Fuck, you're gonna try to call the cops on me." Stiles laughs. "My dad's the Sheriff, actually. But this is all supernatural shit, like, weird shit straight out of a sci-fi sort of thing, except worse because this is like a nightmare I can't wake up from, you know? Am I awake?"

"I don't know about you, but I am," Jackson answers, trying to get to the emergency numbers on his computer. "What happened to your first body?"

"It- I got possessed," Stiles says. "Then the nogitsune kicked me out, so I got put into this- fuck, I don't know what this is. It’s like a vacuum packed shell that I crawled out of the floor in or some shit I don’t _know_ but it _fuckin’ happened_ even if it seems impossible. It doesn't make sense, none of it makes any goddamn sense but it all _happened_. It all _happened_ , didn't it?" Stiles' breathing gets faster, and Jackson realizes he's hyperventilating.

"Dude," Jackson says, finding and immediately pulling up the emergency contacts. "Dude, breathe, you're hyperventilating."

"You know how sometimes the only way to wake up from a dream is to die?" Stiles says, and his voice is drawn tight. Warning bells go off in Jackson's head, because _fuck_ he's never had one before, but this sounds like one of those one in a million calls: the interrupted suicides. "How you're in a dream and you can't wake up, even if you try, like a nightmare where something is coming to murder you, murder you dead, and the dream won't end and you can't get out unless you die and finally wake up screaming or something?"

"They say dying in dreams is a sign of transformation," Jackson says, trying to keep his voice calm. "Keep breathing." There are a few emergency contacts he can dial up on another phone. From the area code on this number, there is a hospital and a police department right near by. "It's not all bad."

Stiles said his dad was the Sheriff, right?

"Yeah, but that's because people don't have dreams like I do," Stiles says, voice constantly shaking now. "I have to- I still- the only way to get them to stop or to wake up is if I scream myself awake and- and even then I don't know if it worked." He trails off and lets out a soft sound, almost like a sob. "I can't do this, you know? I keep- I want to keep trying and I want to be there for everyone and just- I'm not _like_ them. I'm not superhuman and I don't have any cool powers or anything, I'm just Stiles. Stiles who just deals with it, and can just get over it, but I can't, you know? I can't do this, I can't even talk to them about it because _they don't get it_. Everything is so fucking wrong but I can't talk to anyone about it, I can't even explain why it's wrong, but it's all wrong, but no one will listen."

He's crying. The guy, Stiles, is crying now, voice wet and choked and Jackson already has the numbers up, for the hospital, the sheriff's department, all of it. Sure, Jackson can try to sit here and keep the guy talking, hoping that he doesn't do anything dangerous, but that's stupid and he knows it. He's not a hero, and that's putting Stiles at risk. "I'm listening," Jackson tells him, keeping his voice even and calm even as his heart pounds. He's never been so scared, gripping onto the phone and trying to motion to Kiko to get on the fucking phone and _call someone_.

"Yeah," Stiles says, and his breath suddenly lets out in a long exhale, shuddering. "Yeah, you are."

"It sounds like you've been through a lot," Jackson says, frantically motioning to Kiko who _finally_ looks over.

"Yeah," Stiles says, voice quiet. "Yeah, I- yeah, a lot. There's just so much wrong with everything and with me and Scott and dad and everything that happened. I just- I can't talk to them about it because they've got all their own shit to deal with but I don't know how to deal with this stuff. I don't know how to talk about how messed up I am, how I literally want to crawl out of my own skin." He lets out another too tense laugh. "It's not even _my skin_ , it's not even me, I'm-"

"But it is your mind," Jackson says, trying to cut off the rant. He's scribbling on a post-it for Kiko, who is watching him in concern.  
  


> **Call 911 for this area code. And this address. Say that the person is Stiles Stilinski. I think he's going to kill himself.**

"Shit," Kiko breathes under her breath, reading the post-it as Jackson waves her off to _hurry up_.

"I mean, I guess it is, but it all just feels wrong. _I_ feel wrong. I don't care if people tell me it was the nogitsune or whatever bullshit, I was still there, I saw everything, I _felt_ everything, I knew everything, and it- I feel like I've just been-" Stiles lets out another shaking breath, then a sob.

"Violated," Jackson says. There is silence on the other end, and Jackson's heart jumps to his throat. This was not the kind of call that Jackson thought he'd be making today. He thought he'd get kitties, a lot of assholes, and maybe one or two decent people and maybe a story. He did _not_ expect post-possession trauma survivor going through what sounds like is a massive panic attack and meditated suicide.

"Yeah," Stiles says, voice softer. He's taking deeper breaths now. "Yeah, that's- that's mostly how it feels. Like someone has ripped into my brain and thoroughly fucked me up."

"I know it might not mean much," Jackson says, and lets out a breath of relief as Kiko gives him the thumbs up she's got through to 911. "Seeing as how you're struggling to figure out if this is real, but it's real. I'm here, listening to you, and I don't really get it. But I'm here."

"Thanks, Jackson," Stiles says, and it sounds sincere, though there's still a shake.

"Can you keep talking to me?" Jackson asks. "Tell me about what happened? If that helps. Or tell me something else."

"Aren't you supposed to be selling me medical insurance?" Stiles asks, hesitancy lining his voice.

"I think this is a bit more important than insurance," Jackson almost laughs. It's not funny - none of this is funny - but still he manages to laugh, something about how Stiles is so matter of fact. "You're more important than me reciting the script they try to keep me to every night I'm in here."

"They give you a script?" Stiles asks.

"Everyone has a script. It's really dull though." Jackson is stalling. "Stiles?"

There is a long pause, and then sound on the other end of the line, voices. Jackson glances over to Kiko, and sees her watching him, worry lining her face.

"He okay?"

"Stiles," Jackson asks instead. "Stiles, are you with me?"

"My dad is here," Stiles says, and sounds nervous. "Fuck, he's-" there's more voices, and Jackson can make out the sounds of Stiles and another man talking, sounding worried and hasty. He can hear Stiles' voice shaking a little.

"I think he said his dad was the Sheriff," Jackson says, covering the receiver with his hand as he looks up at Kiko. "I think-"

"Did you call the cops on me?" Stiles asks, sounding guarded.

"Well, I can't really break into your house," Jackson says, returning to the call and leaving his explanation to Kiko hanging. "I did the next best thing. I called someone who can legally break into your house for me." Stiles lets out something that sounds like a ragged laugh. "You're going to be okay, Stiles."

"How can you be so sure?" Stiles asks. There's a low murmured voice in the background and Jackson half expects the line to disconnect.

"I can't, but I'm pretty sure once you hit rock bottom the only place to go is up," Jackson explains. Kiko gives him a sympathetic look, though he knows it's not directed at him, instead at the man, the boy, on the other end of the line. "It sounds like you're ready to go back up."

"Yeah," Stiles says, and his voice shakes. "Sorry, I should go, my dad-"

"Yeah," Jackson says, sitting back and feeling less taut, less scared. "Yeah. And just, dude, there are always people who will listen if you need to talk, or need help. It's okay not to be okay. Not everyone out there is a dick."

Stiles lets out a soft sound that sounds a little like a laugh, a little like a sigh, a little like a sob. "Yeah," he says softly. "Thanks, Jackson."

"Hang in there, Stiles," Jackson says, swallowing down the still calming beating of his heart and the itch in his throat. It's not until the phone clicks dead that he can breathe, and when he does he starts crying, the relief of getting through that, and the fear of what just happened, almost happened.

"You going to be okay?" Kiko asks, stepping forward with a concerned look, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, I will," Jackson says, looking at the name on his list. It's already past closing, and his shift has ended, but he doesn't regret staying past tonight. "I just hope that kid will be too."

"Depression?" Kiko asks.

"Possession PTSD, I think," Jackson sighs, trying to wipe away the tears on his face. "Shit, and I thought I had it bad sometimes."

"Is that even-" Kiko blinks, then frowns, clearly baffled.

"Yeah, I didn't really ask," Jackson says. "But suddenly being a telemarketer doesn't seem nearly as bad as it did when I came in today."

"You did well," Kiko tells him, giving his shoulder a final squeeze. "You saved that kid."

"I don't know if I did," Jackson sighs. He feels exhausted, like he's just run a marathon, but it's worth it, he figures. "I just listened."

"Sometimes, that's all someone needs," Kiko says, giving him a brief smile before letting him be to pack up. Jackson sits and looks at the page of numbers, the name 'STILINSKI' waiting to be highlighted and crossed off the list. Jackson uses a yellow highlighter: potential call back.  
  


. . . 

"Hello, I'm calling for Mr. Stilinski," Jackson speaks into the receiver, feeling nervous, unsure as to whether he should actually be calling or not. If he should have just crossed the name off his list.

"Jackson?"

Jackson pauses, breath halted and wets his lips before breathing out. "Yeah," he says. "Is this Stiles?"

"Yeah," says Stiles. "I gotta be honest with you, I don't think I'm gonna be that into your whole insurance pitch."

"That's fine, pretty much everyone I call isn't into it," Jackson admits. "I can take your name off the list."

"Probably a good idea," Stiles says. He doesn't hang up. "Thanks, by the way."

"For what?"

"The other day," says Stiles, his voice a little softer over the phone. "I haven't been doing that great. You caught me at a low point." There is a pause. "So, Jackson," Stiles continues, sounding a bit more confident. "Tell me about yourself."

"Why?" Jackson asks, caught off guard a little. Rarely do people on the other end of these calls ever ask him about himself. They all like to talk instead of him, which suits Jackson just fine. He talks more to everyone he knows when not at work, so it feels fair to have it be the other way around while at work.

"Because I want to know," Stiles says.

"My stories aren't all that interesting," Jackson admits. "Nothing like what-"

"That's okay," Stiles says quickly. "Normal is good. Normal is great, actually. I could use some more normal in my life."

"Okay," says Jackson, and watches as the clock ticks on in the corner of his computer screen. "We'll trade stories then."

"You first," Stiles says. "I can start next time."

"Do you want me to keep your name on my list then?" Jackson asks, feeling a little nervous as he looks down at the name he's just highlighted in red. Do not call back.

"Oh," says Stiles. "Yeah, I guess. Keep my name on your list. I don’t mind."

"Alright," Jackson says, marking a star next to the calling list. "I'll keep you."

There is the sound of a smile in his voice when Stiles says, "Thanks."  
  


. . . 


End file.
